


Empty Chairs At Empty Tables

by BombshellKell



Category: Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BombshellKell/pseuds/BombshellKell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fatal battle with creatures in another realm, Fandral is left alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Chairs At Empty Tables

He'd known it was hopeless from the moment they'd stepped in front of their adversaries, huge creatures with dripping teeth and great curled horns. He'd watched as one of the horns had thrust its way through Hogun's shoulder, how it had tossed him aside. He'd seen it coming for him, and so he'd done the only thing he could think of doing: he turned and ran for help. It was only them there, just Thor, Loki, Sif, Hogun, Volstagg and himself, when they'd been ambushed by the creatures. If he could only get back to Asgard… He'd screamed for Heimdall, stared up at the sky as soon as he'd gotten back to the place they'd been spit out of the Bifrost at. He'd yelled, his voice hoarse with panic, and relief had flooded him when reenforcements did arrive. But when they'd gone back to the fight, it was a fight no longer. 

The creatures were gone, and so was a good deal of Hogun. Sif was lying in the grass, her motionless, bloodied arm stretched toward Loki, who lay on his back, his eyes wide and glassy, lips parted in a frozen expression of shock. Volstagg was an unmoving shadow under one of the wilting trees a few feet away, and Thor wasn't far from him, his fingers limp around Mjolnir's handle. Fandral had stood in the center of the clearing for a long time, even as their reenforcements gathered up the bodies of his friends and carried them away. He'd had to be pulled out by the hand of one of the warriors, still in shock, wondering how he was going to tell everyone what had happened, wondering how the words were going to come from him at all. He'd heard Lady Frigga's sobbing from down the hall as he returned to his chambers with enough drink to put him into a blank, empty sleep. 

He still felt that he was stuck in that sleep, sitting alone at the table after everyone else had finished eating. He felt the empty spaces beside him, and felt the empty chairs across from him as if they were screaming, and instead of eating anything he poured himself another cup of ale. Another followed that, and he simply repeated the motion of filling up the cup again with a tired arm until one of the servers bade him leave so that they could begin cleaning up. He thought he saw them give him sympathetic looks as he stood, wobbling on his unsteady feet. He didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him. He didn't want anyone's sympathy unless a resurrection spell came with it, something that would undo all of this, something that would let him hear friendly voices and laughter again. He wandered the hallways for an hour or so, before going back to his room, more than ready for another night of blank, empty sleep. 

The days passed excruciatingly slowly; simply waking felt like a chore. For a few days, he tried to keep to their usual routine, by himself. He rose the same time he usually did, dragged himself down to breakfast, was greeted with the murmur of the crowd he didn't know very well. He knew some of the murmurs must have been about him, about his cowardice. After he'd had enough of sitting at the table staring into his flagon, he stood again and trudged out to the training grounds. He couldn't spar; Sif had been his partner, and he didn't feel like asking one of the other strangers training to become his new one, so he started swinging his sword at one of the straw practice dummies. He repeated the motion again and again, his muscles growing stiffer and more tired and his front getting covered in shredded straw until he fell to his knees at the base of the dummy, breathing hard and staring up at the unforgiving sky. 

Nothing else had changed. Thor was dead, Loki was dead, Sif was dead. His friends were dead. And the universe scarcely seemed to notice. The sky was the same color, the ground the same texture. Strangers walked and talked in the same way, though perhaps with their voices lowered more now than they'd used to be. He looked in the mirror and saw the same person staring back at him. It didn't seem right. Something huge should have changed, he thought. Things like this didn't just happen out of nowhere and then disappear. 

The world should have been in mourning with him, but it wasn't. It made him feel insignificant, ignored and lost. 

He found he couldn't stick to their routine if it was no longer 'their' routine. Gradually, he stopped leaving his chambers for breakfast. He had casks brought up to him in threes and fours. He spent the majority of his time staring, either at the ceiling or out the window or at himself in his looking glass, asking himself questions. Why hadn't he moved more quickly? Why hadn't he gotten Heimdall's attention sooner? Why didn't he just stay behind and fight? Why hadn't he died with them? He smothered the unanswered questions with more drink, until he fell asleep, waking up when it was dark out only to turn onto his other side and fall asleep again.

Every once in a while, he heard knocks on his door. At first, he could tell that they were women, some of the women he'd frequented in brighter days. He heard their voices, whispering to one another about him, but when he didn't even make a motion to answer, they gave up and went back down the hall. Then, more important voices began to come from outside. When he didn't answer for Lady Frigga. He supposed, acting as everyone's mother, she felt unhindered by the politeness that kept most people from barging into others' bedrooms. She didn't speak at first, only came over and sat with him on the edge of his bed, before putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him into an embrace that he didn't return. She wasn't even his real mother, yet he was her only child left. 

He didn't know how he'd do it, only that he had no other choice. He'd been spiraling downward into this unbearable lack of feeling for so long that he barely remembered what laughing was like. His mind numb with drink, he knelt on the floor of his chambers, the hilt of his sword clasped in his hand. He shifted it sideways, until his right wrist was pressed against the left side of his stomach. If he did it quickly, he'd barely notice, he told himself. It wouldn't even hurt for very long. He pressed the edge of the blade against his bare stomach, drawing blood, and quickly dragged it across his stomach. Blood blossomed from the gash the blade was leaving behind, and he knew almost immediately that he hadn't cut deeply enough. He wasn't dying; the pain wasn't dark and deep enough, still sharp and fresh. He let go of his sword's hilt, letting it clatter to the ground next to him as he fell forward onto his stomach, blood pooling around his torso. His vision was swimming, blurring, as he pressed his cheek to the crimson floorboards and stared in the direction of the window. How long would it be before someone found him here? 

He didn't have to wait long. Only a minute or so later, he saw a pair of feet step around him, though he wondered why its owner didn't seem panicked. Whoever it was kneeled next to him, female legs bending at the knee. 

When he forced his eyes upward, he realized it was Sif. 

"…I'm dead, then," he murmured, letting his eyes fall closed. "I'm dead, or I've finally fainted, and I'm dreaming." 

"Neither," she said simply, before looking down at him. Her eyes were full of scorn as she took in the scene before her. "Fool. What have you done to yourself?" She reached down, touching his back with hands that were cold as ice. "You were always an idiot." 

"And you were always cruel… Calling a dead man an idiot." He almost managed a laugh, but it turned into a coughing fit instead, every cough sending a sharp twinge of pain through his split stomach. 

"I know that you know suicide does not lead anyone to Valhalla," she said sharply. "You're dying with no purpose. You will never have hope of seeing us again. You know this." 

"It's better… than what I have in life," he said, opening his eyes again. "At least now… Living alone… as a coward. And now I'm hallucinating…" 

"It doesn't matter how I am here. Whether hallucination, as a spirit, or a dream. My message is still the same." She picked his sword up from the floor next to him, which wasn't something he thought a hallucination or spirit could do. "You must yell for a servant, Fandral. You must call for Iduna and the healers. You must live."

"…Why?" 

"Because," she said, setting the sword back down and straightening up. "It is not yet your time to bow out." He reached out to grab onto the hem of her skirt, but it slipped through his fingers as if it wasn't there. She was disappearing, and when he looked up, he caught only a glimpse of her stern eyes before she was gone, and everything was dark again. He used all of his strength to turn into his side, the floor still slick with blood, and raised his voice to yell hoarsely for a servant in the hall. The ones that rushed in were reacting much more as he expected, one of them starting to cry in panic and yelling at a third in the hall to get Iduna and the healers. 

Fandral let them do whatever they wanted to him, and though the pain was getting worse and worse with every passing moment, it was pain. It was something that he felt, something that made it through his nerves to his brain at last. He was no longer numb.


End file.
